“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” He touched his hat. “All stores secured!”

“Very well.” Bolitho lifted his glass and watched the flags blowing out from the shore signal tower. Maybe, just to the right, from his warm room at the inn, the admiral would be watching.

Maynard yelled, “Reply, sir! ‘God speed and good luck’!”

Bolitho handed his glass to Stockdale and thrust his hands beneath the tails of his coat. “Get the ship under way if you please. Lay a course to weather the headland.” He would take no part in it. He would watch every man. And every man would know it.

The boatswain’s mates took up the cry, “Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!”

The rigging and shrouds were suddenly alive with swarming figures as the topmen ran aloft as surefooted as cats, the laggards urged on mercilessly by the petty officers with fists and ropes’ ends alike.

“Break out the anchor!” Mr Quintal, the barrel-chested boatswain, swung his cane over the straining forecastle hands. “Heave! Put yer backs into it, you whimperin’ old women!” His cane whacked down and a man cried out. “Heave! Heave!” The capstan jerked and then cranked steadily as the dripping cable came inboard.

“Loose heads’ls!” The cry was passed along the deck like a chant. High above, the released canvas flapped and banged in the wind, and the men strung out along the swaying yards like ants kicked and grappled with each growing area of rebellious sail.

Bolitho ignored the flying spray and watched the men dashing from one job to the next. The shorthandedness was all the more apparent now with the topmen aloft.

Herrick called from the bows, “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Like a released animal the frigate paid off into the wind, her deck heeling sharply as the gust found and held her.

Vibart grated, “Man the braces there! Look alive!”

The men at the braces laid back heaving and panting until the great yards began to squeak round. Then the wind filled the sails and the billowing canvas thundered out hard and full as the Phalarope went about and gathered way.

By the time the anchor was catted and made fast the land was already drawing away on the starboard quarter, the Isle of Wight quite invisible in a curtain of drizzle and spray.

Everything creaked and banged as the ship continued to swing on course, with shrouds and rigging whining like the strings of some mad orchestra.

Bolitho watched the unwanted men sliding down the stays and adding their weight to the men at the braces. “Lay her on the port tack, Mr Vibart.” He looked back across the taffrail and tried to recall what was so terrible about Captain Pomfret. He remembered the man’s cold eyes, and the cowed faces of his men.

Proby was standing hump-backed beside the quartermaster, his battered old hat over his ears like a candlesnuffer. Bolitho said, “Let her run freely, Mr Proby. There may be need for reefing down later, but I want to reach Falmouth as soon as possible.”